


Into the Den of the Lionesses

by angelblack3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Exhibitionism, Kinda Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi?, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs to solve a case. John is dragged along for the ride. So nothing is really different. Except for the candle wax. That's new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Den of the Lionesses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fallen-SaintSam](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fallen-SaintSam).



> You guys can blame Fallen-SaintSam for this. She went and drew this amazing BDSM Johnlock picture. Warning: NSFW. http://fallen-saintsam.tumblr.com/post/27901145467/bdsm-club-click-for-a-bigger-version-but-its#notes 
> 
> Now I can't focus on anything else but writing for that. So there you go. I'll return to regularly scheduled fic after this.

The two men pulled up to the side of the pavement, exiting the cab. One left with an extremely purposeful stride, long trench coat billowing dramatically behind him. The other one fumbled for a few notes to give to the driver, then hurried to follow his companion. The building they were about to enter was incredibly discreet, nearly invisible on the busy stretch of Central London. John jogged up to Sherlock, managing to catch the sleeve of his coat before he walked right in. 

"Sherlock, hold up a minute, what are we doing here?" 

The tall man huffed impatiently, and waved back towards the direction of the departed cab. "We're here for the case John, remember? I explained at Baker Street."

"No," John insisted, "you shouted something about rope patterns, then you launched off of the sofa and grabbed a cab before I could get a word in edgewise. Then you clammed up for the entire ride here. What is this place?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if John should already know the intricacy of Sherlock's plan just from the words "nylon abrasions". "This, John," Sherlock spoke slowly, being a bastard as per usual, "is one of the more upscale bordellos located in London. We're here to pose as clients to catch a serial killer that's been using rope to strangle her victims to death. The case itself is fairly simple, but the killer has been extremely meticulous in not leaving behind trace evidence. But there's only one type of rope that causes the kind of abrasions that have been seen on all of the victim's wrists and necks. Thanks to a case I took on about a year ago, I am intimately familiar with the types of bondage that is regularly used in BDSM clubs. This one is the only one that carries the rope that matches the pattern. Therefore, all we have to do is enter the club, have enough of a look around to locate the right rope, and then I can pinpoint which of the employees are our killer." By the end of Sherlock's speech, his talking had sped up, and the manic glint that caught him during a chase was back in his eyes. 

John's brain had shorted out around the words "bordello" and "rope", but he jolted back when something occurred to him. 

"Hang on, clients? Clients as in-"

"If you're worried about the cost, don't be. I have plenty of money, and the owner of this establishment actually owes me a favor. I checked, she's not the killer. And she's agreed not to say anything to her girls before we're done. She thinks that having a serial killer in her establishment will grossly upset her income." 

"Um, good? But that's actually not what I'm worried about."

"Oh?" Sherlock looked impatient, and kept glancing at the door to the club. John thought to make his point quickly, before Sherlock just barreled in and left John in the dark. Again.

"No, Sherlock, I'm worried about either of us having to sham sex with a possible serial killer."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. John desperately hoped they got stuck like that one day. Though maybe they already were.

"We're not having sex with them." John breathed a sigh of relief.

"You're going to pose as my submissive and give them a show that will sufficiently distract them so the killer won't notice what I'm doing." 

"I'm going to WHAT?"

"Shhh!" Sherlock hissed. He checked the windows, but they were tinted. He ushered John around the corner, where they could speak relatively privately. This was apparently going to take some persuading. Meanwhile, John was preoccupied with the image of being a submissive in a BDSM club. Particularly Sherlock's submissive. 

_No._ John ordered his mind. _Don't go there. Not here of all places._ It had been an arduous battle between John's libido and his own conscience to not give in to the particularly lurid fantasies that had been swimming around in his brain lately. He has long thought that Sherlock was attractive, he's a hot blooded bisexual after all. There had been moments of panic when he had started to think he was developing a crush on the consulting detective, but John eventually convinced himself it was just hero worship. Offset by the pig entrails he had found in the bathtub one day. And the cockroaches in the fridge. And the dead owl pinned to the mantelpiece. But then it usually came roaring back whenever Sherlock was particularly brilliant. Or when he played the violin instead of torturing it. Or when he pranced around in that sodding dressing gown. Oh, wait, right, back to the issue at hand.

"Sherlock, I am not going on display for a bunch of women in a BDSM club." John protested, once they'd gotten to an area where it would be difficult to overhear their conversation.

"Why not?"

"Why-" John spluttered, "because it's weird Sherlock!" Sherlock's eyes suddenly focused on him, and John had to tamp down the feelings that gaze stirred in his gut. 

"You've never been with a prostitute before."

Where in hell did that come from? "Um, no? Why does that matter?"

"Do you have an issue with people who sell sex for money?" 

"What? No." Sherlock gave him a dubious look, and John continued, "I mean, the system itself is bollocks, yeah. Don't know how many 'workers' have come into the clinic looking like they've been through hell and back again. But that's the business itself. I don't have an 'issue' with prostitutes."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Jesus Sherlock, the 'problem' is that I don't want to be...fondled in a goddamn club by a bunch of strangers! Wait, why is it even a group in the first place?"

"Because if I try to let you be 'fondled' alone by each individual, it will take up more time and leave you in a dangerous position. We're doing it as a group so all of them will be engaged, and the killer won't have a chance to seriously injure you. Besides, I'm not going to leave you alone."

"What do you mean?" 

"I'm going to be watching you."

John's mind suddenly sounded like what happened to the telly when the program shorted out. "What?"

"I don't need to tour the whole compound. The room we'll be renting will more than likely have the rope that we're looking for. It's intimate to the killer, so she'll probably have it close by. I just need you to be convincing enough so the culprit doesn't catch on." 

John shifted, now possibly even more uncomfortable than he was before. Sherlock was going to watch him? An image of him, trussed up, gagged, and helpless while Sherlock dispassionately watched flashed through his brain. God, no, that was some dangerous territory he was getting into. 

"Sherlock, look, I really don't think-"

"John," Sherlock's voice was suddenly placating. Either he was being a manipulative twit, or he had genuinely caught on to John's distress, "I promise you, you won't be in any amount of danger for a second. She won't do anything with so many witnesses, and this is the quickest way to find out who she is. Please." John looked up at those pleading silver eyes, and already his resolve was melted away. Goddammit, how did he keep finding himself in these situations? 

With a deep breath and steel etched into his spine, John nodded.

"Excellent," Sherlock exclaimed, back to the excited man he had been about five minutes ago. He had totally been shamming the care then. Little git. "Let's go, we're already late."

John heaved a sigh, then followed. Once more into the breach then, as usual. 

When they entered the building, John's first impression was white. It was everywhere. The walls, the carpet and the furniture were so white they looked new. Thankfully, the establishment had dim lighting, so it didn't immediately leave John blind. The only thing that had any color was the ebony desk on the opposite wall. The waiting room was small, but the color and sparse furnishings made it look several times larger. Beside the desk there were two doors, as well as one on each opposite ends of the room. You almost couldn't tell they were there besides the slim cracks along the seams. Maybe it was the eerie uniformity of everything, or maybe it was the uncertainty of what was behind door numbers one to four, but John could feel unease rising steadily in his gut. A gorgeous brunette receptionist was typing away on a sleek silver laptop behind the desk. She hadn't even glanced up once. 

Sherlock walked right up and stood, not interrupting the woman during her work. John stood a little behind and off to the side, not quite realizing until just then how he probably already looked like a submissive partner. That...irked him a little bit. When John actually moved to get closer, Sherlock turned his head back to him and narrowed his eyes. Apparently, they were starting their roles already. Perfect. 

John restrained the impulse to roll his eyes, and just remained where he was. The brunette hit a couple more keys, then finally looked up at Sherlock. "Name?" her tone was sultry, thick with a Russian accent. John couldn't tell if it was fake or not. 

"Basil. Amelia is expecting me." The woman raised an eyebrow, but turned back to her screen. She clicked a few times with her wireless mouse, then nodded. 

"Door to your right, she's waiting." Sherlock nodded, then strode for the door. As John passed, he thought he caught a glimpse of the girl leering at him. When he looked back though, she was staring innocently at her computer. That was...odd. 

John entered the office right before the door shut. The change from stark white to warm light oranges and browns made his eyes water. How the secretary out front dealt with all of that brightness, he'd never know. He caught the tail end of Sherlock reintroducing himself using his real name. This was the woman who owed him a favor then. She was just as beautiful as the receptionist, though older by at least a decade. Her brown topknot took on a glossy red sheen in the right light, and her green eyes had almost the same keenness as Sherlock's. Apparently, they weren't going to be staying in the office for very long, based on the hurried motions of the owner. 

"Yes, Sherlock, everything's in place. I'm not an idiot, I haven't said a word to my girls. I've only told them that we have an extremely exclusive client who's bringing his lover for a bit of fun, that's all." John tried ignoring the little thrill that shot through his stomach at the word 'lover'. 

"And all of them will be there? You're sure?"

"None of my girls would call in for this session. It's not often that someone can afford them all to work together." Her money eyes finally looked at John, and he suddenly felt like he was being stripped in that office. Wouldn't matter in a few minutes anyway. He'd be naked for a number of strange women soon enough. Stiff chin, Watson. "He's your submissive?" 

Sherlock spared a quick glance at John, but looked right back at Amelia. "Obviously," he said derisively. 

"He doesn't look it," Amelia didn't sound condescending, just factual. Which, John could give her credit for. He certainly didn't feel like a submissive. He felt like a convict on death row. "You'll have to be a tad more convincing for my girls, sweet thing. Try looking down at the ground when you can. Certainly don't look any of them in the eye." 

John's response was to keep staring at Amelia's lightly freckled face. She cracked a toothy grin. "Oh, I see why you like him now." She strode around the mahogany desk in a crisp, plum colored pinstripe suit. Sherlock tensed when she placed a hand on John's cheek. John's eyes widened, but he still didn't look away. "The willfulness could actually work to your advantage. You could say he's new, and you're looking for some discipline besides your own hand. He might like that too much." She winked, and John felt his face flush. 

"Yes," Sherlock said tensely, "I do have a story planned, thank you."

"Everything you requested is prepared," Amelia continued moving back to the desk, not paying any heed to Sherlock's seething, "are there any other, hm, stipulations you want me to tell the girls before they join you?" 

"No one is to touch him but me." 

_That_ made Amelia and John look at Sherlock like he'd just sported a second head. That was declaring that the both of them were the smartest people he'd ever met. John has several seconds of thinking _Oh God Sherlock is going to participate this won't be good_ before the woman starts talking. "That, might be a bit difficult darling," Amelia said, eyes darting back to John, a new kind of light shining in them that John couldn't identify. 

"They can use all the toys they want, but any physical touching is only to be done by me. Understood?" Amelia still looked a little hesitant, but she nodded.

"Your room is behind your right hand corner door." Sherlock thanked her, and left the office. John was wrenched back to Earth, and went to follow in a hurry, but was stopped by Amelia's voice. "Come visit me sometime darling. I know a certain navy blue that would do wonders for bringing out your eyes." John stared in confusion, and Amelia did her toothy grin again. "Ah, of course the lanky git wouldn't tell you. I'm also a tailor. My company's motto is 'We suit your body, but pleasure your soul.'" John snorted a little, and left without a positive or a negative for a revisit. He's not entirely sure he would ever want to see this place again after tonight. 

Sherlock had already gone through the door by the time he exited. When John passed the receptionist again, he unmistakably heard her say, "Make sure they don't eat you alive." When John looks back at her, the smile she's giving him makes John strongly lean towards her being the killer. "Y-yeah," John stammers, a little taken aback, "try my best." The smile just gets wider, and the dread John's had since he walked through the door spreads like an infection.

He closes the door behind him a little firmer than necessary, then looks around. The white-on-white motif is the same, but some things in the room have color. There's an honest to God throne on a pedestal back against the furthest wall facing the door, surrounded by matching red drapes. A black St. Andrew's Cross lays empty on the right side of it. The drooping buckles make it lean more towards the medieval torture device it's based on. A plush red armchair faces a metal box spring with a bare mattress in the center of the room. A blue leather table sits next to the armchair, holding an assortment of toys that John can't make out. What rivets John's attention is the support system hanging above the bed. Yards and yards of rope hang from the railings, the coarse material looking like it will chafe something terrible. 

John swallows to gain moisture back in his mouth and says "I thought you said the rope had nylon material." Sherlock looks up from the table he'd been inspecting, and his confusion clears momentarily when he sees what John's staring at. "Good memory, though I did say the rope belonged to the killer, not to the establishment. She wouldn't want it to be out of her sight and used for other people."

"Sounds like she has a rather unhealthy relationship." It's a lame joke, John knows that. But he has to break the tension somehow or he'll have a mental breakdown. Sherlock doesn't make any sort of comment, which seems to show that he's caught on to John's anxiety. 

"Go ahead and strip," Sherlock demands. Okay, maybe not. 

The gravity of the situation hits John full force. Apparently, he can handle bleeding, crying soldiers and nameless men firing bullets at him and his squadron. But getting naked in front of his crush/flatmate for a bunch of women to come watch him become a gibbering mess is not something he can face easily. Who'd have thought? Sherlock actually does notice the way he flinches this time, and quickly comes around to face him. 

"John," Sherlock's steady and deep voice is a grounder, John latches on, "it's alright. I promised you nothing dangerous would happen to you. I meant it. I know that this is incredibly uncomfortable, but it will be worth it in the end." Sherlock sounds so sure, that John can't help but feel his anxiety slip away. John nods to himself, then pulls the jumper off from his torso. He unbuttons his undershirt swiftly, not wanting to draw this out any longer than necessary. John's guessing that they don't have much time before the girls get there. He toes off his shoes and socks, a little trick he learned when coming home exhausted from surgery. But when he tries to pull his shirt past his shoulders, Sherlock stops him. John looks at him in confusion, which quickly transforms into shock when he feels Sherlock's fingers join his gaze on his bullet wound. He's staring so intently that John doesn't have the urge to ask him what he's doing. The fingers dance delicately over the skin, tracing the grooves and wrinkles with barely a touch. John's dead nerve endings can't even tell that he's there. He just has the ghost of a presence over his left shoulder, and it's all John can do not to shiver. 

With some horror, he realizes that this is actually arousing him. John swallows, hoping Sherlock doesn't look down at his crotch. He doesn't want Sherlock to deduce this. That it's his gaze and his touch that has John feeling like electricity is hovering in the air around them. Sherlock pulls back, and John can tell that he's hardly satisfied with his inspection. But they're pressed for time, so John pulls the shirt off the rest of the way. He doesn't question Sherlock about his sudden inspection over his scar. He chalks it up to another Sherlock thing, one of the little ticks that make him into the amazing man that he is. Sherlock had never seen it before, so he would obviously be intrigued by it. John stamps down the little swell of disappointment that brings up. 

John shucks off his trousers with ease, then stops when he gets to his pants. Sherlock's barged into the bathroom countless times when John was trying to take a shower, but he's never actually seen him naked. John breathes through his nose, reminds himself several times that this will help them catch a serial killer, and stands naked before his flatmate. The embarrassment he feels has thankfully taken care of any arousal he had. John hasn't realized he's closed his eyes until he opens them. When he does, Sherlock is standing by the table again, not even looking at John. He's not sure if he should feel offended or relieved. Probably relieved, but still. It's not like he's bad to look at. 

Sherlock comes striding back, holding a strip of leather. For a panicked second John thinks it's a whip, but then he sees the buckle. It's a collar. Sherlock stares him dead in the eye as he explains, "It will help complete the picture. To them, we'll have been a couple for at least a year, plenty of time for me to collar you. Amelia assures me this one is brand new, so none of them will recognize it. It would have been very strange indeed if a rich client couldn't even afford a new collar for his sub." He goes to place it around John's neck, but John stops him. 

"I'll do it," he says, wanting whatever independence he's got left before this whole thing gets rolling. Sherlock's eyes flash in annoyance, but he hands the collar to John without a word. John uses his sense of touch to get the thing in place, since there are no mirrors in the room. It slips on easily, and adjusting it isn't difficult. When he pulls it around to have the buckle rest against the back of his neck, the cold metal and heavy leather is a constant reminder of its presence. It sends little slivers of pleasure into his mind. Huh, this is something John would've never guessed about himself. He's had a few adventurous girl and boyfriends who liked to tie him up. But John never really got more out of it than some red wrists. Maybe it's the change of company. _Don't. Go. There._

During John's adjustment of the collar, Sherlock apparently hasn't been idle. There, on the bare mattress was a particularly large tube of lube, and a dildo. "Would you prefer to be on your back or your front while I prepare you?" Sherlock asks this in a way that's somehow perfectly innocent. Like if John prefers his tea with sugar or honey. His mind clicks back on and John splutters, "Um, neither? I'll do this myself too."

Sherlock frowns and protests "It will be far easier if you just let me do it. You won't be able to easily reach yourself if-"

"Sherlock. No." He's using his Captain voice, the one that brooks absolutely no argument. 

"I don't understand. You've done this with another man before. I know you have." Sherlock's whining, as if John is being deliberately difficult. John shakes his head, refusing to give in. He also doesn't ask how the hell Sherlock knows that.

"Sherlock, what we're about to do is already stretching the membrane of what constitutes as a 'friendship.' I am NOT having you finger me and stick a dildo up my arse to break that boundary."

Sherlock sighs, giving in only because they're pressed for time. "Fine," he mutters, finally shrugging off his coat to hang it on the back of the door. With a measured breath, John climbs onto the mattress. The lining feels odd against his bare skin, and John uncaps the lube and squirts some into his hand. He wrinkles his face at the stickiness, and rubs it onto his fingers. He jolts when he notices that Sherlock's been staring at him this whole time. 

"Um" John coughs, "could you look away please?" 

Sherlock's eyes widen, "You're not seriously trying to preserve your modesty. Now?" 

"Yes, I know," John bites, "but before I completely debase myself in front of you and several strangers, I would like to preserve whatever dignity I have left, thanks." Sherlock throws his hands in the air, but turns to face the corner. The white shirt stretches across his shoulders in quite an appeasing way. Which aids John in his effort to relax. _Just try to think that you're masturbating._ That actually does help him out a little. Some tension flees his shoulders, and John uses some of the lube to stroke his flaccid cock. He's not going to come, that would probably only lead to drawing things out (if he's even supposed to orgasm in this session), but he can at least make himself aroused. 

John's tongue darts out to his lips while he keeps staring at his flatmate's back. He knows he probably looks a little creepy, but he can't seem to give a damn right now. A sudden image hits him, of Sherlock's back undulating as he thrusts slowly into John. The bastard would probably draw it out, making John beg for release before finally giving it to him. Dangerous territory, especially fucking now, but John won't bring himself to care. His cock slowly thickens, and John's ready to use his lubed fingers on his arse. John brings his feet onto the table, moving his hips down a bit for better access. John teases himself, lets his digit coat his hole before slowly inserting one finger. John hisses. God, it really has been a long time since he's done this. He strokes himself, once, twice, and his body eases around the intrusion. He wiggles his finger around, searching, and he locates his prostate. It's not dead on, but the resulting pleasure is enough for John to shiver. The second finger enters more easily. John twists his fingers around, stretching himself. He takes his hand off his cock to use more lube, and now he can barely feel the sting. He looks to make sure, but Sherlock hasn't looked away from the wall. His arms are uncrossed though, and his hands are balled into fists. Huh. 

When John manages to ease in a third finger, he feels thoroughly stretched. He looks again at Sherlock's taut back, and he's hit with a fantasy again. Beads of sweat rolling down that perfect spine, resting at the small of his back. John, kneeling between his legs, a long cock wedged firmly down his throat. Using his lips and tongue to bring Sherlock to incoherency, having him grip the strands of his hair in desperation. Good, now he can use the dildo. John pulls out his fingers, and quickly lubes up the toy for good measure. The head of it slides in easily, but the rest of the black silicone is a heady presence against his walls. John can't stop the small moan that leaves his throat. He eases it back out, adds more lube, then slides it back in. He's able to take more of it this time, and he doesn't stop easing it in and out of him until the base of it rests against the curve of his arse. John breathes, feeling the toy shift inside of him. He clenches, then moans when it presses against his prostate. Distantly, he's aware of how needy he sounds already. Slowly, he moves his legs down until they dangle over the end of the mattress. He moves himself so he's supporting his weight on his feet and calves, lifting his hips to keep the dildo from hitting the mattress and having it shoved deeper inside of him.

He checks himself to make sure he doesn't sound completely undone when he says, "Okay, I'm finished." Sherlock slowly turns around, and he seems to be looking everywhere besides John. 

Sherlock clears his throat twice before saying, "Good, the girls will be here shortly, we have to set you up." He moves back over to the dreaded table, and John doesn't think about what 'setting him up' might entail. Then Sherlock is suddenly kneeling in front of him, incredibly close to his hard cock. John nearly chokes on nothing. 

"It's a good thing you're already aroused," Sherlock says conversationally, "it will make slipping this on a lot easier." Then, without so much as a by your leave, Sherlock slips a cock ring around the head of his penis. It curls around the crown, and there's a tiny leather strap that stretches over the ends to slow any leakage of precome. It's tight, unerringly so. It's uncomfortable in the same way an itch you can't scratch on the middle of your back is uncomfortable. John can live with it, but he'd really rather not. He does hiss out a half-hearted, "Jesus, warn a bloke the next time you try that. Bit not good Sherlock." John shifts, which is a mistake. It brings the dildo back against his prostate again, and his cock jerks in its new restraint. John hisses, biting back the groan that wants to surface. He's never going to be able to look Sherlock in the eye after this. Sherlock is watching his reactions dispassionately, which is way too close to his earlier fantasy to be entirely comfortable. His feelings of arousal recede, and John breathes. 

Sherlock stands again, and motions for John to get to the middle of the bed where all of the rope is hanging. John tenderly moves to the center, knowing what's coming next. Though, maybe not when Sherlock seems to remember something. He snatches something black with a large amount of buckles from the table, and moves behind John. The doctor decides that he'd much rather have Sherlock in his line of sight than out of it in this state. Now, he has no idea what he's planning, has no idea what emotion those silver eyes are hiding. "Fold your arms together," Sherlock's baritone is a shock to his system, but John complies. He feels something leather slide around his arms, which tightens when Sherlock pulls on the straps. The word pops into John's head the second it's buckled into place, an arm binder. John pulls experimentally, but his arms don't budge. He's stuck with his hands grasping each elbow. The position pulls a little on his wound, but not enough for it to really hurt. 

When Sherlock's back in his line of sight, the eyes have a tinge of genuine concern. "Are you alright?" 

John takes a deep breath, feeling his mind sink under the haze of being naked, aroused, and trapped alone with Sherlock's scrutiny. John nods and utters a, "Yeah." 

"Good," Sherlock says, appeased, "this next part might take a bit. It's been a while since I've done this." He measures the rope with his eyes, and loops it around the bar hanging above them several times. He ties the end of it off in a completely professional fashion to the metal bed frame. It says something to John's mental state when what Sherlock said finally catches up to him. 

"Wait, you've done this before?"

"I would think you would remember having visited this particular experience in your life John." The smirk he's trying to hide shows that he knows damn well what John's asking him. John refuses to rise to the bait, and Sherlock concedes while smoothing out the free ends, separating the individual ropes. "I mentioned that I had a case similar to this one a while ago. I had to pose as a Dom in another BDSM club, though that one catered and was run exclusively by males." Satisfied with his organizing, Sherlock lifts up John's arms and begins wrapping the rough cord around his hips. The long digits so close to his skin gives him a heady rush, and he has to focus when Sherlock keeps talking.

"The case itself didn't take very much of my time, but I did have to train for several days to play the part convincingly. Apparently, I soared through my training." Sherlock's smiling, and John has no doubt in his head that that particular praise is something Sherlock has heard throughout his whole life. Sherlock ties the knot, leaving a steady weight of rope at the small of his back. Sherlock gently pushes down on John's shoulders, and he bends over without complaint. He's taking the whole thing rather well now. Though maybe he's just become centralized on Sherlock's voice and those practiced hands barely brushing his hot skin. "Instead of just deleting the knowledge, I decided to retain it. Thought it would be helpful in the future, and I was right. As usual." John snorts at the blatant smugness in the tone. Sherlock's pulling on the free rope, and wrapping around each of John's upper arms. They loop across his chest, underneath and above his nipples. Sherlock pulls the rope tight once the lengths are back behind him. He ties them all together into one giant knot, using up the entire length. The position pulls hard on his shoulder blades, but it's still just a dull ache to his wound. He can maybe last about two hours before it borders on unbearable. He shifts, to test everything. His arms are completely immobilized, and it's somehow connected to the string of rope attached to the ceiling, so he can't even bend away very far. The one around his hips pulls up at his stomach, hitching his breathing every time he takes a deep inhale. He can bend his torso upward, but he has to stop once he reaches a foot because his shoulders scream at the position. His knees ache at the kneeling position, and standing up after this is going to be difficult.

All in all, it leaves John hard as a fucking stone. He bends forward again, straining against the ropes, panting. God, what must he look like to Sherlock now? He looks, and the man is off to the side, watching John intently while running his long hand over something on the table. John shivers again, and for some reason, he's suddenly reminded of Sherlock's odd request in the office. John stares at the floor, the only position that he's remotely comfortable in and asks, "Sherlock, earlier, what did you mean when you said no one was allowed to-" John's interrupted when a ball gag is shoved into his mouth. John's shout is indignant, as it has every bloody right to be. He shakes his head to get the gag off, to have this conversation that Sherlock's apparently so desperate not to. But Sherlock has already tightly clinched it behind his head, and the gag is pressed firmer into his mouth. His lips are stretched over the silicone, and his jaw has the constant sensation of being filled. John's groan this time is a little less indignant. 

"You're taking this in stride, John. I'm impressed." That would be a compliment, if John couldn't hear the smugness radiating from his friend's body. When they get home, John is binning that experiment with the rat fetuses. Data be damned. John does stupidly try to call Sherlock an unflattering name, but the end result is just drool running down his chin and a bit down his neck. Drooling, trussed up, and gagged with a toy up his arse is apparently the first impression he's destined to make on the five gorgeous women that suddenly stride into the room. 

John finds it a little weird that the first thing he notices about them is that none of them are barefoot. Though maybe that has more to do with the angle of his view. He does awkwardly turn his head to follow them all, assess them as best he can. The black-haired one in the dominatrix outfit is clearly the leader of the group. It's not just the whip and thigh-high boots, it's her presence. She strides in, commands attention from her gait and long neck, setting the mood for the way this night is going to be played out. She sits on the right arm of the bright red armchair across from John. Another girl nestles into the left side, the perfect yin to the dominatrix's yang. She's the same dirty blonde as John, with soft features and a pink nightie. She's wearing matching lace gloves and heels that somehow compliment each other even though the boldness of the shoes should destroy the 'good girl' image she's obviously going for. 

John feels pressure on the mattress, and looks to his right. A red head in black heels and panties is lying down on the spacious mattress, squishing her bare breasts into the padding. John wonders what possible use the arm cuffs could have attached to her harness that wraps underneath and over her breasts. They obviously don't impede movement, and John decides that they're just there for decoration. The woman shakes something in her hand, and John's bemused to figure out it's nail polish. Apparently, touching up on her manicure is too important to be distracted by the naked man in the room. John supposes it can't be that different from a normal work day. 

Two blondes, one long and wavy honey while the other is short cropped lemon, are examining the table with a keen interest. John's nerves flare back to life. The girls have paid no attention to either John or Sherlock, who is still standing by John's side, closer to the blondes. Sherlock's paying them just as much heed, he's still staring at John. The doctor is confused, shouldn't the man be profiling these women? Finding out who the killer is so they can get the blazes out of here? But Sherlock's gaze doesn't falter, not even when the dominatrix speaks up once everyone's apparently in position. 

"I see you've already gotten him ready for us, Mr. Basil. Trying to take the fun out of it?" The grin she flashes makes the one the receptionist gave him look the endearing smile of a two year old child. John shudders. 

Sherlock proclaims, "Hardly. This is the easy bit. He doesn't let anyone tie him but me." He moves to the table, moving between the two blondes. Ms. Honey Waves is wearing the same aesthetically pleasing, completely not functional submissive getup as her red head coworker. Except this one is sans panties. The replacement is a black chain running between, okay, that just _can't_ be comfortable. Lemon Short Crop has on an impractical nurses outfit that could make her blend into the wall. If not for the crimson cross nipple stickers, cherry heels and '50s nurses' cap. "Besides," Sherlock continues, "he's not entirely finished." The smirk Sherlock turns on him makes him seem like a completely different man. John supposes he is. Right now, he's Mr. Basil. Stupidly rich client with some money to burn on lurid sex acts. And John is...well, he's already been established as a submissive, so he guesses that he doesn't really need a name for this. And at least he has the ball gag, so he can't accidentally blow their cover in a fit of passion. 

John finally clicks into recognition of what Sherlock's holding before it's being used on him. Sherlock's fingers are pulling down on John's nipple, and he groans a bit behind the gag. The sound is muffled, but certainly not enough for everyone in the room not to have heard it. The dominatrix and the red head are the only ones who don't immediately focus on him. John flushes under the scrutiny. Somehow, it's only arousing when Sherlock's doing it. Then Sherlock eases the nipple clamp onto the distended nub, and John forgets about holding back for decency. The edge is taken slightly off when Sherlock caresses his other nipple to hardness. John squirms, then winces at what that does to the clamp and the dildo. When Sherlock's ministrations have yielded the desired result once more, he closes the second one without preamble. John's eyes roll back for a moment. Sherlock's lips are suddenly close to his ear, and the hot air tingles the back of his neck. Sherlock murmurs past the rising drift to say, "When you can't handle anymore, grunt twice." Sherlock pulls back from his awkward reach around John's midsection, and takes a step back to admire his handiwork. 

The chain hangs low to the mattress. Every breath John takes sends it scraping across the material, sending little aftershocks of combined pleasure and pain. The clamps hurt, of course, but it's one John can't really process correctly. He feels cross wired, like his mind can't file pain properly after getting shot. Everything pretty much pales in comparison to a bullet wound. Gravity and his own breathing are working against him, swaying the chain back and forth like a fetish pendulum. John can't even breathe to calm down now. He moans, long and low, his mind reeling. 

"My, my, what a responsive little thing he is," the statement comes from the direction of the table, and John pictures it's Honey Waves. That kind of gravelly voice seems like it would belong to her. John tries to glare at her, but is stopped by the sight in front of him. Sherlock is sitting in the middle of the armchair. The pink girl is pressed against the side, obviously waiting for instruction on how close she's allowed to be. The dominatrix is at home, lounging back in her seat like a cat, nearly touching Sherlock with her pale shoulder. The sight reminds John of some sort of harem novel, and he nearly laughs. That would probably be a bit odd. Then his gaze travels to land on the little white remote Sherlock is holding in his right hand. 

"Trust me," Sherlock's deep voice resonates in John's blanking head, "you haven't seen anything yet." Sherlock's finger flicks up the switch, and John convulses forward when the toy springs to life. The size and angle means John can feel it vibrating against his walls and his prostate. John lowers his head, no longer able to keep it up. He rides the sensation, shivering in the ropes. For a few seconds, he forgets everyone in the room, and only feels blinding pleasure. Then it recedes, and the vibration isn't as powerful. It's still turned on, but the buzzing is a barely perceived sensation. Just niggling at the back of his mind. He looks up again, and this time everyone's attention is on him. Even the red head has stopped painting her nails to stare at him. When he looks at Sherlock, he's blown away by the man's acting. By all accounts, the man should be at least affected by his reactions. Instead, Sherlock still has the cool, superior look of a Dom. Like he knew exactly how John would react once he turned on the dildo. That look makes another wave of arousal course through his spine and end at his toes. 

"Now, who gets the first lash?" Sherlock says, sparking lights of eagerness in some of the women. John releases a protest, which dribbles more saliva onto himself. Sherlock's response is a smirk that befits a shark more than a person. "Remember, pet," Sherlock drawls out the endearment, knowing it will inflame John, "we're here for punishment, not play. Ladies?" 

The dominatrix is the first to move, which a surprise to no one. She wraps the loose end of the whip around her hand, clutching the thing close to her chest. John shifts in his bonds, anxiety finally setting in. But he takes a deep breath, feels the clamp pull at his nipples, and steadies himself. He can do this. He hears the whip brush the floor when she's standing behind him. The two blondes are standing intimately close to one another, lust already clouding their eyes. The doll in pink has her pale lips parted in excitement. The red head is back to painting her nails a striking crimson. 

He hears the whip leave the floor, sing through the air, and then it strikes his bare arse and the sound echoes in the room. John jerks forward, trying to get away from the pain. Though his grunt is mostly from surprise. he has a second to register that the whip is moving again before it stings through his system. God, this woman doesn't hold back. Twice more, in quick succession, and John actually does shout from the pain. She lets up for precisely five seconds, then decides that John's had enough time to breathe. When she brings the whip back, John's chanting to himself why he's doing this. It's for a case. It's for Sherlock, he just has to endure this for however long the man needs, then he can go home and try to forget all of this. The pain really starts to set in, and John can feel instinctive tears from trying to hold back. He bites down hard on the gag when the whip crosses over one of the previous marks. "Enough," Sherlock demands. The whipping stops, and John could kiss Sherlock for that. "Let the others have a turn." And now John could punch him right in the face. 

His angry yell is choked back when the vibrator is turned up. And, yes, apparently the whole thing still hasn't lessened John's arousal by any degree. His skin burns and itches, and he knows he's not going to be able to sit comfortably for at least a week. But the thought turns him on instead of annoying him. The vibrator and the clamps ease away the last of the worst of it, leaving behind a pleasant tingling sensation. Belatedly, John realizes that he's going down into subspace, something that he's read about when curiosity with BDSM overtook him. His skin feels overheated, and he's really having a hard time focusing on anything now. All he feels now is this nagging urge to come, to feel pain, to do anything but just kneel there caught in between. John opens his eyes to realize they've been closed, and he can see his thick arousal hanging from this angle. His hips have been doing small jerking motions to gain some semblance of friction, to no avail. It wouldn't matter if John had been thrusting into anything anyway. He won't be able to come until the cock ring is removed. The vibrator is slowed once more, and his throat releases a despairing noise. The gravelly feminine voice from before is suddenly behind him. 

"Oh, I think the poor dear is realizing his predicament." He hears a few snickers, and feels shame color his cheeks. All of the air rushes out of him when he feels something searing hot land across his buttocks. He twists, trying to see what the hell just happened, and feels another drop land on the opposite cheek. The one from before is cooling and solidifying on his skin in a very odd, cloying manner. Then it hits him. _Candle wax,_ his mind helpfully supplies, _she's pouring candle wax on me._ A few more drops are interrupted when tassels are suddenly brushing his skin. The leather is soft, and spreads some of the soft wax. Then, the tickle is gone, to be replaced by several sharp snaps across his abused skin. It's different from the whip, less of a concentrated pain, more spread out. It's something that John could easily ignore normally. But the lashes hit his welts, and the hot wax moves to cover the wounds. The heat over his open welts feels like magma is slowly oozing through his bloodstream. It's heady and agonizing. So this is far from normal. Behind his shouts of pain, he has the small thought of wondering if candle wax will cause an infection. _No, of course it won't stupid._ Then more wax is dribbled onto him, and he doesn't have thoughts anymore. 

John drags his head up to look at Sherlock, to see if he's gotten anything from this. That maybe he won't have to endure much more. But Sherlock's not looking at the girls, he's looking at him. One hand is steady on the damned control, while the other is...playing with the pink girl's hair? Those beautiful violinist fingers are gently stroking through the blonde knots, not a tangle to stop the procession. The girl is lapping it all up like a kitten, her head is turned into his shoulder, seeking more attention. But Sherlock's not even looking at her. He's just, carding through her hair as he gives John the kind of look he gives to crime scenes with locked doors and boarded windows. The dominatrix leans up from her position to ask, "May I play with the remote, Mr. Basil? I'd like to see him screaming in pleasure." 

Sherlock flicks his eyes toward her and replies with a curt, "No," he looks back at John, and he feels like what he says next is meant only for him, "his pain is to be shared, but not his pleasure. Am I to assume Amelia was not clear on that?"

Lemon Crop, who's been stroking another short cat-o-nine-tails, says, "She only told us we couldn't touch him." 

"The pleasure part was implied. I am the only one who gives him that. Don't forget it." The girls nod, the red head utters an assenting hum. 

"Pity, about the no touching bit," the nail perfectionist says, "I was hoping to scratch him with these." She curls her fingers like claws, and the scalding reply Sherlock gives is lost on John when another lash lands directly over the vibrator. John's eyes roll back, and he's staring at the floor again when they open. 

"My turn sweetie," John recognizes the voice as Lemon Crop. He shudders when he feels the new whip dance across his back this time. She has to stand directly in front of him, to get access to a decent blank canvas without being blocked by the ropes. A few strokes in, and it's not as bad as the last. The wax has fully cooled, leaving an odd itching sensation across his bum. He's almost getting distracted by his own thoughts, until the vibrator picks up in speed again, directly stimulating his prostate. Then it slows back down to the maddening tickle, and John thrashes. He tries to seek that blessed vibration again, and it does come back. For two seconds, and then it's so low it's almost off. Eventually, Sherlock starts displaying a rhythm, and Lemon Crop catches on. For every intense vibration, the lashes stop, and once he can register pain again, she hits him across the back. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Stinging, aching, moaning, gasping, desperate. John's so high on endorphins he's not entirely sure if he's dreaming. Then, for some reason, it all stops. The pain is gone, and his prostate just has the nagging presence of the toy to stimulate it. John sobs, begging for more. More of anything. 

A flash in his peripheral, and a large leather strap is suddenly slapping away at his thigh. He catches a flash of crimson nails, and John knows who's turn it is. The thought grounds him more than it should. He had thought the dominatrix had been bad, this woman is merciless. Each strike induces a new wave of pain, and she doesn't let him catch his breath. She switches up between legs, and then moves on to the feet. His thighs feel like they've been doused in acid, and John's not sure how much more he can realistically take. The slaps on his feet are concentrated, aimed only for the sensitive arches. He shifts his legs, trying to move away, and his knee catches the chain of the clamps. It pulls down harshly on his nipples, and John screams. 

"Stop." Sherlock booms. He hears the strap fall to the ground, and suddenly Sherlock is there, caressing his neck. It's a tiny comfort, since he still has the collar on. But it is a comfort all the same. John tries to follow the touch when it moves down to his chest. Tenderly, Sherlock takes off the clamps. The rush of blood is terrible, and John utters another soft sob. "Shhh, easy pet," this time the endearment isn't as infuriating. Still a little irritating though, "don't worry. I've got you." John remembers his safe...sound. Why is Sherlock being so tender now? Did he think John had forgotten? He hears the click of the controller before the buzz of the vibe is back in full swing. John groans, and Sherlock is clutching his head right below his chin. He's being forced to look into those icy depths as he's cresting again in pleasure. His eyes must be so blown, then he realizes that Sherlock's pupils are the same. "Five times, each thigh. Then the feet. Then back again. When I tell you to, stop immediately. Understood?" Oh God, he's giving detailed instruction. This can't be good. The woman must have given some kind of assent, because Sherlock is looking at him when he softly says, "Go." 

The pain is back, only it's more spaced apart than it was before. Five times left. Five times right. Then the paired foot. Then the other. Then the whole process starts over. John moves his head, trying to get away, but Sherlock's murmuring nonsensical things to him. And that helps to keep him steady. When the cycle starts a third time, John feels something other than pain. It's the buzzing again, and it's working steadily upwards in intensity. Each time he gets a set, the vibrations become more intense. John's not moving away anymore, he's moving toward the slaps. Associating them now with more pleasure, more intensity. John feels himself go boneless, and the only reason he's not dangling from the bars above is because Sherlock's there to support him. The straps are back to his thighs again, and he can't even register Sherlock's hand ghosting down his abdomen in this state. He does feel those fingers take something off of his penis, and Sherlock whispering into his ear, "Come John." Then the setting is as high as it will go, Sherlock's halted the woman, and John's coming in spurts across the mattress. He feels all of his muscles lock up, then release in one big unclench that has the ropes digging into his skin from his weight. John's drifting, soaring, and he could almost swear that orgasm made him have an out of body experience. Something slips out of his mouth, and John works his jaw instinctively. The ball gag is gone. Several hands must have been working together, because John is placed delicately across the mattress almost instantaneously. It's only Sherlock's wiry arms he feels though, the others have stepped back once he was untied. Sherlock reaches underneath him, and carefully works out the vibrator, not taking his eyes off of John's face. John hisses, but is glad when the bloody thing is gone. 

Sherlock takes a step back, and John is rather grateful for the space. If they were back home, he would have already passed out. But soldier's instincts are telling him that something's not done. They're not finished here yet. Though he can't remember why. Oh. Right. Serial killer. One of the women. Which, piss it all, he's not going to be able to do much in the state he's in. Why was this a good idea?

He looks at Sherlock, and he hopes that his eyes can properly communicate the amount of trouble they're probably in right now. But Sherlock doesn't look concerned. He looks triumphant. He turns to the group of girls and says, "I would like you to come with me to Scotland Yard, Ms. Celia Turton." To John's surprise, it's the girl with the pink nightie that goes pale. 

"I-if this is a prostitution bust, you're really out of your-" 

"This is not about your career choice, this is about the fact that you've murdered three men in the past five days." 

The other girls back up from the blonde in shock, and she stammers, "What? I don't know what you're-" 

"It was a good effort, trying to cover up the abrasion marks with your gloves. Though, next time, I would choose a pair that aren't completely see through." He sneers the last few words, and John notices a flash of something that he can't defend Sherlock from. He tries to warn from the bed, but all that comes out is something garbled that the git doesn't notice. "That, and they're monogrammed with your initials. Which you might not want to parade about since the last man who died received a text message asking to meet him at the murder scene with the same two letters." Sherlock's speech is actually seeming to bore him from how simple it was, which means he's unprepared for when the girl lunges at his throat. She's completely transformed from the 'delicate pleasing flower' she tried to pass off about five minutes ago. In its place is a snarling, enraged creature hell bent on murdering her client. Before John has time to stumble from the bed and fall flat on his face, the girl's being hogtied by her coworkers. All four of them have to work together to pin the struggling woman, but it's a matter of minutes before she can barely even move. She starts spewing abuse at them, about how they're all dirty and anyone they touch is filth. Filth that should be scourged from the Earth. The dominatrix cracks her whip, and the girl shuts up fairly quickly. 

Three agitated, dominant women stand guard over the girl, while Honey Waves brings over John's clothes. "Here you are darling, we're used to being naked in front of public, but you might want to dress up before the coppers arrive." John takes the clothing, a little stunned at how quickly this whole situation has suddenly turned on its head. One second he was achieving the hardest orgasm of his life, the next he was hastily tugging on his pants before people he probably knew on a first name basis saw him bare as the day he was born. Sherlock turned off his phone, having just let Lestrade know where to pick up his murderer. He grabs his coat, shrugging it on with practiced flourish. He saunters back over to John and says, "While Lestrade will doubtlessly hunt us down for statements, I suggest we leave. Unless you want to explain to a good portion of the force why we were in a brothel in the first place."

John huffs a quick, "No thanks," and makes to follow Sherlock out the door. He stops though, and turns back around to the women. He coughs, rubbing the back of his neck. The women not currently tied to the ground looked at him questioningly. "Um, listen," John hesitates, not really sure how these things end, "that was, uh, really, really, um, good? And I just wanted to say, well, sorry for not being honest, though you probably get that a lot, but, thanks? For the, um-"

"Don't mention it pet," the Dom purrs, and John damn well knows she's using the endearment on purpose, "if you ever want to come see us, separate from your...friend. Just let us know, I'll even give you a freebie, for taking care of this little worm." She places a boot heel first on the girl's arm, but she doesn't flinch from the pain. Just hisses like a wet cat. 

John's not sure how he's going to reply, but he's stopped from it when Sherlock's hand is wrapping around his arm and he says, "Sorry, he's taken." John's dragged out of the room, and the girls are all flashing each other know-it-all grins. They get down several blocks and Sherlock's hailing a cab before his brain jumps back online from Sherlock's statement. Suddenly, everything makes sense. John wonders if this is how Sherlock feels every time he solves an interesting case. The odd request, the intense inspection of his scar, balling his fists when John had been half-masturbating in the room. Sherlock stroking hair that matched exactly with John's. Even supporting him through his orgasm, making sure he wasn't alone on the overload. All of it clicks together, like picking up pieces he didn't even know belonged to the same puzzle. 

"You like me." John says, stunned. He doesn't even know he's said it out loud until Sherlock flinches from his words. "All of this. Was this just some incredibly convoluted scheme to seduce me?" He's dragged Sherlock away from the cab that looked like it was about to pull up to them. They might not get another one for a while, but this is important. This needs to be dealt with now. Before Sherlock tries to file it away as unimportant. 

Sherlock doesn't look at John's face, but he replies, "No. There was actually a case, and I did need your help. But there was a certain...appeal...to the disguise that would be required from the both of us." 

"So I'm right? You do like me. For how long?"

"John, can't this-"

"No. No, Sherlock. This is definitely not something that can wait. How long?"

"...around thirteen months now. Since the poisonous 50/50 cabbie." Jesus. That's actually been longer than John's crush. That started developing after the Pool. When that brilliant, shining mind had finally shown the heart that Sherlock had locked away a long time ago. 

"Why didn't you just tell me Sherlock?" That earns him a derisive snort. 

"And risk our friendship over something that you've clearly never wanted to instigate? I was better off just keeping silent. But I was selfish John. The opportunity presented itself and I clutched at it like a dying man. I apologize. Now may we please go home?" 

Sherlock's shifting from side to side, clearly uncomfortable. Clearly expecting rejection. So it's quite the moment to savor when Sherlock looks at him after John says, "Who says I didn't want to?"

Sherlock blinks, and he says, "At Angelo's, you were rather-"

"Yeah. I didn't want one _then_ you bloody idiot, we had just met each other. And you seemed a tad off your rocker. Brilliant, no denying that, but also a bit bonkers. You didn't think that maybe I would change my mind several months down the road?" 

Sherlock looks a bit chagrined, and mutters, "I thought it was wishful thinking. That you seemed interested in me. I thought that, well. You hadn't been sleeping with anyone for a while, from what I could tell. So I thought you were just latching on to the nearest human with a pulse and-" Sherlock's cut off when John surges up and brings his head down to smash their lips together. It's a bit awkward, at first. Sherlock is damned tall and John almost has to stand on tiptoes which is just undignified. But then Sherlock relaxes, wrapping his arms around John's head and waist. He dips down for easier access, and suddenly there's teeth and lips biting and sucking. John's gone boneless again. They pull back, breathing their shared air, foreheads touching to ground themselves. They're not sure who starts it, but they're both giggling when they pull back from one another. John's grin is threatening to split his face in two, while Sherlock's eyes sparkle with newly discovered mirth. The two break down into more giggles, and they leave the alley, finally looking for a cab. 

"Once we get back to Baker Street, I'm going to take care of that for you." He motions his eyes to Sherlock's barely concealed erection. And Sherlock's smile turns predatory. 

"Oh? Should I give you detailed instructions on how to use that lovely mouth of yours?" John shudders, then coughs and chokes out, "Yeah. I'd probably like that." Sherlock's chuckle is a bit darker than before. They're still waiting for a cab to show when something occurs to John. 

"Hang on. Just how long exactly were you aware that you 'petting' a serial killer?" Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Please, John. I wouldn't knowingly stoke a killer's hair, no matter how much it matched yours. I happened to glance down and notice the monogram and the abrasions. That was when I stopped, though you seemed a bit preoccupied at the time." The lascivious grin he gives John doesn't distract him from asking, "What about that bit in the room. The whole 'lay on your front or back while I prepare you'. Is that your idea of bed talk?" Sherlock doesn't respond, and when John looks, there's a slight dusting of pink that gives him away. 

John's giggles turn into chuckles. He knows he's laughing at Sherlock's expense, but he can't help himself. The idea is so utterly...Sherlockian that it strikes John as hilarious. "We're going to have to work on that, mate." John manages, once he's done. A pitying cab finally pulls up and Sherlock leans down to whisper, "I look forward to you talking dirty to me, Captain."

Sherlock slides in, leaving John flustered on the pavement. Okay, he probably deserved that. He scoots after Sherlock, shutting the door behind himself. The cab is off, and things seem entirely different while remaining exactly the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick this took longer than I thought. I think I may have stretched John's patience a bit in this fic, but I hope it's still In Character. I promise you I'm working on my WIP right now. This just had to be done or I wouldn't have been able to focus. Hope you enjoy!


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